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He looks good.

That’s the first thing that enters the minds of all the musicians, record executives and engineers who line the room.

Certainly there are those who question why he has come back. There are those who are afraid he will only sully a perfect career…and of course there are those who call him dead.

And indeed dead is exactly what he has been for almost seven years now, but F.S. would be the first to say “I got too much living to do baby!” And really who could fault Capitol Records and their team of voodoo priests for bringing back Old Blue Eyes from beyond the grave?

As Zombie Sinatra enters the studio a hush falls as The Chairman opens his mouth to address the eager audience

“…BRAINSSSSSSSS!!!!”

Maybe this was a mistake.

“HA! Got ya! Somebody bring me some Jack!” He bellows out.

And just like that he is back and in command like he never left.

“How should I sing this?”

“Like a 16 year old girl who’s been dating a 40 year old man, but it’s all over now.”

Frank pauses a moment to reflect on this statement.

“All right, everybody, take five!” Frank yells out.

The musicians disburse with weary readiness and Frank Sinatra walks to the control booth. With a swift haymaker to the chin he promptly fires the album’s producer Jack White.

”Get rid of this Clyde and get me Q in here now! Damn it! I didn’t rise from the ranks of the undead to put up with this shit!”

From around 8:00pm to beyond 12:00 in the morning the landmark recording session continues. The voice becomes thick from too many cigarettes and many swallowed yawns.

After many takes and frequent cups of coffee, Sinatra’s exhaustion begins to show in his shoulders which start to slump a little. His duet partner Ashanti in a thoughtful, weary way rubs the back of his neck.

“If I was only 68 years younger…” he thinks to himself. “Ah fuck it! I only live twice! Everybody take five!”

A short break later he is back and raring to go. Tired, too, but still very game, the fascinated people in the studio audience hunch themselves farther down in their chairs, determined to listen as long as he continues to sing.

During another short break, a sheepish 50 Cent introduces himself and even takes care to refer to Frank as “Mr. Sinatra.” F.S. can’t help but think “I like this kid.” Sinatra informs his new friend “You and I are gonna hit the town later. Do you mind if I call you Smokey?” On the inside 50 Cent giggles like a school girl.

It is now hours later and everybody listens to the playback. Sinatra, with his head in his arms, leaning against the glass paneled control booth, listens harder than anyone. An epidemic of yawns seizes the musicians. Frank looks up.

“Yeah. Yeah. I think that’s the one. Whadda you think?”

Quincy nods and a few people in the audience laugh a little. They’ve ALL sounded good enough to be “the one.”

“Well, then, that just about wraps it up, I guess.”

Sinatra takes a gulp of the last few drops of lukewarm coffee remaining in his cup, and then he lifts the inevitable hat from his head a little, and plops it right back, almost as if he’d wanted to relieve pressure from the hat band. The studio empties fast; just music stands and chairs remain. Sinatra flops onto one of the chairs, crosses his legs and hums a fragment of one of the songs he’s been recording.

He waves to the night janitor now straightening up the studio and says, “Jeez. What crazy working hours we got. We both should’ve been plumbers, huh?”

The janitor watches Sinatra exit into the night and listens to the playback of the last track, a little swinging number Sinatra had announced just moments before as “…Something crazy these kids these days love!”

“You better lose yourself in the music, the momentYou own it, you better never let it goYou only get one shot,do not miss your chance to blowThis opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo…”

The janitor quietly whispers to himself: “He should have stayed dead.”